.  CO/HZ/?  Doyle 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SONGS  OF  THE  ROAD 


OTHER  BOOKS 
BY  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 


ADVENTURES  OF  SHERLOCK  HOLMES,  RETURN  OF  SHER- 
LOCK HOLMES,  THE  GREEN  FLAG,  THE  GREAT  BOER 
WAR,  ADVENTURES  or  GERARD,  SIR  NIGEL,  THE 
HOUND  OF  THE  BASKERVILLES,  THROUGH 
THE  MAGIC  DOOR,  SONGS  OF  ACTION, 
ROUND  THE  FIRE  STORIES,  THE 
CROXLEY    MASTER,  THE 
CRIME  OF  THE   CONGO, 
THE  LAST  GALLEY. 


SONGS  OF  THE  ROAD 


BY 

ARTHUR   CONAN  DOYLE 


GARDEN  CITY    NEW  Yo  K 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1911 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OP  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  IQOS,  ipog,  I9II,  BY  A.  CONAN  DOYLE 


College 


S41 


TO 

J.  C.  D. 

TmS-AND-ALL 


February,  igu 


G90079 


FOREWORD 

If  it  were  not  for  the  hillocks 

You'd  think  little  of  the  hills; 
The  rivers  would  seem  tiny 

If  it  were  not  for  the  rills. 
If  you  never  saw  the  brushwood 

You  would  under-rate  the  trees; 
And  so  you  see  the  purpose 

Of  such  little  rhymes  as  these. 

Crowborough 
IQIZ 


CONTENTS 


I.    NARRATIVE  VERSES  AND  SONGS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD      ........  vi 

A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE       ......  3 

SIR  NIGEL'S  SONG  .......  8 

THE  ARAB  STEED  .......  10 

A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST    ......  16 

EMPIRE  BUILDERS  .......  22 

THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  ......  26 

THE  BAY  HORSE    .......  36 

THE  OUTCASTS        .......  39 

THE  END        ........  42 

1902-1909        ........  45 

THE  WANDERER     .......  53 

BENDY'S  SERMON    .......  60 


II.     PHILOSOPHIC  VERSES 

COMPENSATION       .......  73 

THE  BANNER  OF  PROGRESS   .....  77 

HOPE      .........  79 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

RELIGIO  MEDICI 82 

MAN'S    LIMITATION 86 

MIND  AND  MATTER 89 

DARKNESS 91 


III.    MISCELLANEOUS  VERSES 

A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 95 

BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 97 

DECEMBER'S    SNOW 99 

SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION  101 

THE  EMPIRE— 1902 107 

A  VOYAGE 108 

THE  ORPHANAGE in 

SEXAGENARIUS  LOQUITUR 1x3 

NIGHT  VOICES 115 

THE  MESSAGE 117 

THE  ECHO 119 

ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  AUTHOR       ....  iao 

A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 122 


I 

NARRATIVE  VERSES  AND  SONGS 


SONGS  OF  THE  ROAD 

A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE 

(Coronation  Year,  1911) 

God  save  England,   blessed  by  Fate, 

So  old,  yet  ever  young: 
The  acorn  isle  from  which  the  great 

Imperial  oak  has  sprung! 
And  God  guard  Scotland's  kindly  soil, 

The  land  of  stream  and  glen, 
The  granite  mother  that  has  bred 

A  breed  of  granite  men! 

God  save  Wales,  from  Snowdon's  vales 
To  Severn's  silver  strand! 


4  A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE 

For  all  the  grace  of  that  old  race 
Still  haunts  the  Celtic  land. 

And,  dear  old  Ireland,  God   save  you, 
And  heal  the  wounds  of  old, 

For  every  grief  you  ever  knew 
May    joy    come    fifty-fold! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 
May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 
Enfold  and  uphold  us 
On  land  and  on  sea! 
From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 
From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 

Thy  blessing,  Lord,  on  Canada, 
Young  giant  of  the  West, 


A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE  5 

Still  upward  lay  her  broadening  way, 
And  may  her  feet  be  blessed! 

And  Africa,  whose  hero  breeds 
Are  blending  into  one, 

Grant  that  she  tread  the  path  which  leads 
To  holy  unison. 

May  God  protect  Australia, 

Set  in  her  Southern  Sea! 
Though  far  thou  art,  it  cannot  part 

Thy  brother  folks  from  thee. 
And  you,  the  Land  of  Maori, 

The  island-sisters  fair, 
Ocean  hemmed  and  lake  be-gemmed, 

God  hold  you  in  His  care! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 
May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 


6  A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE 

Enfold  and  uphold  us 
On  land  and  on  sea! 
From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 
From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 

God  guard  our  Indian  brothers, 

The  Children  of  the  Sun, 
Guide  us  and  walk  beside  us, 

Until  Thy  will  be  done. 
To  all  be  equal  measure, 

Whate'er  his  blood  or  birth, 
Till  we  shall  build  as  Thou  hast  willed 

O'er  all  Thy  fruitful  Earth. 

May  we  maintain  the  story 
Of  honest,  fearless  right! 


A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE 

Not  ours,  not  ours  the  Glory! 

What  are  we  in  Thy  sight? 
Thy  servants,  and  no  other, 

Thy  servants  may  we  be, 
To  help  our  weaker  brother, 

As  we  crave  for  help  from  Thee! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 
May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 
Enfold  and  uphold  us 
On  land  and  on  sea! 
From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 
From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 


SIR  NIGEL'S  SONG 

A  sword!  A  sword!  Ah,  give  me  a  sword! 

For  the  world  is  all  to  win. 
Though  the  way  be  hard  and  the  door  be 
barred, 

The  strong  man  enters  in. 
If  Chance  or  Fate  still  hold  the  gate, 

Give  me  the  iron  key, 
And  turret  high,  my  plume  shall  fly, 

Or  you  may  weep  for  me! 

A  horse!  A  horse!  Ah,  give  me  a  horse, 
To  bear  me  out  afar, 

Where  blackest  need  and  grimmest  deed, 
And  sweetest  perils  are. 

8 


SIR  NIGEL'S  SONG 

Hold  thou  my  ways  from  glutted  days, 
Where  poisoned  leisure  lies, 

And  point  the  path  of  tears  and  wrath 
Which  mounts  to  high  emprise. 

A  heart!  A  heart!  Ah,  give  me  a  heart, 

To  rise  to  circumstance! 
Serene  and  high,  and  bold  to  try 

The  hazard  of  a  chance. 
With  strength  to  wait,  but  fixed  as  fate, 

To  plan  and  dare  and  do; 
The  peer  of  all  —  and  only  thrall, 

Sweet  lady  mine,  to  you! 


THE  ARAB  STEED 

I  gave  the  'orse  'is  evenin'  feed, 

And  bedded  of  'im  down, 
And  went  to  'ear  the  sing-song 

In  the  bar-room  of  the  Crown, 
And  one  young  feller  spoke  a  piece 

As  told  a  kind  of  tale, 
About  an  Arab  man  wot  'ad 

A  certain  'orse  for  sale. 

I  'ave  no  grudge  against  the  man 
I  never  'card  'is  name, 

But  if  he  was  my  closest  pal 
I'd  say  the  very  same, 

For  wot  you  do  in  other  things 
Is  neither  'ere  nor  there, 


THE  ARAB  STEED  u 

But  w'en  it  comes  to  'orses 

You  must  keep  upon  the  square. 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you  the  story 

Just  as  it  was  told  last  night, 
And  if  I  wrong  this  Arab  man 

Then  'e  can  set  me  right; 
But  s'posin'  all  these  fac's  are  fac's, 

Then  I  make  bold  to  say 
That  I  think  it  was  not  sportsmanlike 

To  act  in  sich  a  way. 

For,  as  I  understand  the  thing, 

'E  went  to  sell  this  steed  - 
Which  is  a  name  they  give  a  'orse 

Of  some  outlandish  breed  — , 
And  soon  'e  found  a  customer, 

A  proper  sportin'  gent, 
Who  planked  'is  money  down  at  once 

Without  no  argument. 


12  THE  ARAB  STEED 

Now  when  the  deal  was  finished 

And  the  money  paid,  you'd  think 
This  Arab  would  'ave  asked  the  gent 

At  once  to  name  'is  drink, 
Or  at  least  'ave  thanked  'im  kindly, 

An'  wished  'im  a  good  day, 
And  own  as  'e'd  been  treated 

In  a  very  'andsome  way. 

But  instead  o'  this  'e  started 

A-talkin'  to  the  steed, 
And  speakin'  of  its  "braided  mane" 

An'  of  its  "winged  speed," 
And  other  sich  expressions 

With  which  I  can't  agree, 
For  a  'orse  with  wings  an'  braids  an'  things 

Is  not  the  'orse  for  me. 


THE  ARAB  STEED  13 

The  moment  that  'e  'ad  the  cash  — 

Or  wot  'e  called  the  gold, 
'E  turned  as  nasty  as  could  be: 

Says  'e, "  You're  sold !    You're  sold ! " 
Them  was  'is  words;  it's  not  for  me 

To  settle  wot  he  meant; 
It  may  'ave  been  the  'orse  was  sold, 

It  may  'ave  been  the  gent. 

I've  not  a  word  to  say  agin 

His  fondness  for  'is  'orse, 
But  why  should  'e  insinivate 

The  gent  would  treat  'im  worse? 
An'  why  should  'e  go  talkin' 

In  that  aggravatin'  way, 
As  if  the  gent  would  gallop  'im 

And  wallop  'im  all  day? 


i4  THE  ARAB  STEED 

It  may  'ave  been  an'  'arness  'orse, 

It  may  'ave  been  an  'ack, 
But  a  bargain  is  a  bargain, 

An'  there  ain't  no  goin'  back; 
For  when  you've  picked  the  money  up, 

That  finishes  the  deal, 
And  after  that  your  mouth  is  shut, 

Wotever  you  may  feel. 

Supposin'  this  'ere  Arab  man 

'Ad  wanted  to  be  free, 
'E  could  'ave  done  it  businesslike, 

The  same  as  you  or  me; 
A  fiver  might  'ave  squared  the  gent, 

An'  then  'e  could  'ave  claimed 
As  'e'd  cleared  'imself  quite  'andsome, 

And  no  call  to  be  ashamed. 


THE   ARAB    STEED  15 

But  instead  'o  that  this  Arab  man 

Went  on  from  bad  to  worse, 
An'  took  an*  chucked  the  money 

At  the  cove  wot  bought  the  'orse; 
'E'd  'ave  learned  'im  better  manners, 

If  Vd  waited  there  a  bit, 
But  'e  scooted  on  'is  bloomin'  steed 

As  'ard  as  'e  could  split. 

Per'aps  'e  sold  'im  after, 

Or  per'aps  'e  'ires  'im  out, 
But  I'd  like  to  warm  that  Arab  man 

Wen  next  'e  comes  about; 
For  wot  'e  does  in  other  things 

Is  neither  'ere  nor  there, 
But  w'en  it  comes  to  'orses 

We  must  keep  'im  on  the  square. 


A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST 

Peter  Wilson,  A.R.A., 
In  his  small  atelier, 
Studied  Continental  Schools, 
Drew  by  Academic  rules. 
So  he  made  his  bid  for  fame, 
But  no  golden  answer  came, 
For  the  fashion  of  his  day 
Chanced  to  set  the  other  way, 
And  decadent  forms  of  Art 
Drew  the  patrons  of  the  mart. 

Now  this  poor  reward  of  merit 

Rankled  so  in  Peter's  spirit, 

It  was  more  than  he  could  bear; 

16 


A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST  17 

So  one  night  in  mad  despair 

He  took  his  canvas  for  the  year 

("Isle  of  Wight  from  Southsea  Pier"), 

And  he  hurled  it  from  his  sight, 

Hurled  it  blindly  to  the  night, 

Saw  it  fall  diminuendo 

From  the  open  lattice  window, 

Till  it  landed  with  a  flop 

On  the  dust-bin's  ashen  top, 

Where,  'mid  damp  and  rain  and  grime, 

It  remained  till  morning  time. 

Then  when  morning  brought  reflection, 
He  was  shamed  at  his  dejection, 
And  he  thought  with  consternation 
Of  his  poor,  ill-used  creation; 
Down  he  rushed,  and  found  it  there 
Lying  all  exposed  and  bare, 


i8  A   POST-IMPRESSIONIST 

Mud-bespattered,  spoiled,  and  botched, 
Water  sodden,  fungus-blotched, 
All  the  outlines  blurred  and  wavy, 
All  the  colours  turned  to  gravy, 
Fluids  of  a  dappled  hue, 
Blues  on  red  and  reds  on  blue, 
A  pea-green  mother  with  her  daughter, 
Crazy  boats  on  crazy  water 
Steering  out  to  who  knows  what, 
An  island  or  a  lobster-pot? 

Oh,  the  wretched  man's  despair! 

Was  it  lost  beyond  repair? 

Swift  he  bore  it  from  below, 

Hastened  to  the  studio, 

Where  with  anxious  eyes  he  studied 

If  the  ruin,  blotched  and  muddied, 

Could  by  any  human  skill 

Be  made  a  normal  picture  still. 


A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST  19 

Thus  in  most  repentant  mood 
Unhappy  Peter  Wilson  stood, 
When,  with  pompous  face,  self-centred, 
Willoughby  the  critic  entered  - 
He  of  whom  it  has  been  said 
He  lives  a  century  ahead  — 
And  sees  with  his  prophetic  eye 
The  forms  which  Time  will  justify, 
A  fact  which  surely  must  abate 
All  longing  to  reincarnate. 

"Ah,  Wilson,"  said  the  famous  man, 
Turning  himself  the  walls  to  scan, 
"The  same  old  style  of  thing  I  trace, 
Workmanlike  but  commonplace. 
Believe  me,  sir,  the  work  that  lives 
Must  furnish  more  than  Nature  gives. 
'The  light  that  never  was,'  you  know, 
That   is  your   mark  —  but   here,    hullo! 


20  A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST 

What's  this?    What's  this?   Magnificent! 

I've  wronged  you,  Wilson!    I  repent! 

A  masterpiece!    A  perfect  thing! 

What  atmosphere!    What  colouring! 

Spanish  Armada,  is  it  not? 

A  view  of  Ryde,  no  matter  what, 

I  pledge  my  critical  renown 

That  this  will  be  the  talk  of  Town. 

Where  did  you  get  those  daring  hues, 

Those    blues    on    reds,   those    reds    on 

blues? 

That  pea-green  face,  that  gamboge  sky? 
You've  far  outcried  the  latest  cry  - 
Out  Monet-ed  Monet.    I  have  said 
Our  Art  was  sleeping,  but  not  dead. 
Long  have  we  waited  for  the  Star, 
I  watched  the  skies  for  it  afar, 
The  hour  has  come  —  and  here  you  are." 


A  POST-IMPRESSIONIST  21 

And  that  is  how  our  artist  friend 
Found  his  struggles  at  an  end, 
And  from  his  little  Chelsea  flat 
Became  the  Park  Lane  plutocrat. 
'Neath  his  sheltered  garden  wall 
When  the  rain  begins  to  fall, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 
You  may  see  them  in  a  row, 
Red  effects  and  lake  and  yellow 
Getting  nicely  blurred  and  mellow. 
With  the  subtle  gauzy  mist 
Of  the  great  Impressionist. 
Ask  him  how  he  chanced  to  find 
How  to  leave  the  French  behind, 
And  he  answers  quick  and  smart, 
"English  climate's  best  for  Art." 


EMPIRE  BUILDERS 

Captain  Temple,  D.S.O., 

With  his  banjo  and  retriever. 
"Rough,  I  know,  on  poor  old  Flo, 

But,  by  Jove!  I  couldn't  leave  her." 
Niger  ribbon  on  his  breast, 

In  his  blood  the  Niger  fever, 
Captain  Temple,  D.S.O., 

With  his  banjo  and  retriever. 

Cox  of  the  Politicals, 

With  his  cigarette  and  glasses, 
Skilled  in  Pushtoo  gutturals, 

Odd-job  man  among  the  Passes, 

22 


EMPIRE  BUILDERS  23 

Keeper  of  the  Zakka  Khels, 

Tutor  of  the  Khaiber  Ghazis, 

Cox  of  the  Politicals, 

With  his  cigarette  and  glasses. 

Mr.  Hawkins,  Junior  Sub., 

Late  of  Woolwich  and  Thames  Ditton, 
Thinks  his  battery  the  hub 

Of  the  whole  wide  orb  of  Britain. 
Half  a  hero,  half  a  cub, 

Lithe  and  playful  as  a  kitten, 
Mr.  Hawkins,  Junior  Sub., 

Late  of  Woolwich  and  Thames  Ditton. 

Eighty  Tommies,  big  and  small, 
Grumbling  hard  as  is  their  habit. 

"Say,  mate,  what's  a  Bunerwal?" 

"Somethin'  like  a  bloomin'  rabbit." 


24  EMPIRE  BUILDERS 

"Got  to  hoof  it  to  Chitral!" 

"Blarst  ye,  did  ye  think  to  cab  it!" 
Eighty  Tommies,  big  and  small, 

Grumbling  hard  as  is  their  habit. 

Swarthy  Goorkhas,  short  and  stout, 

Merry   children,   laughing,   crowing, 
Don't  know  what  it's  all  about, 

Don't  know  any  use  in  knowing; 
Only  know  they  mean  to  go 

Where  the  Sirdar  thinks  of  going. 
Little  Goorkhas,  brown  and  stout, 

Merry  children,   laughing,   crowing. 

Punjaub  Rifles,  fit  and  trim, 

Curly  whiskered  sons  of  battle, 

Very  dignified  and  prim 

Till  they  hear  the  Jezails  rattle; 


EMPIRE  BUILDERS  25 

'Cattle  thieves  of  yesterday, 

Now  the  wardens  of  the  cattle, 

Fighting  Brahmins  of  Lahore, 

Curly  whiskered  sons  of  battle. 

Up  the  winding  mountain  path 

See  the  long-drawn  column  go; 

Himalayan  aftermath 

Lying  rosy  on  the  snow. 

Motley  ministers  of  wrath 

Building  better  than  they  know, 

In  the  rosy  aftermath 
Trailing  upward  to  the  snow. 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE 

(Being  a  Sequel  to  "The  Groom's  Story" 
in  "Songs  of  Action") 

Not  tired  of  'earin'  stories!  You're  a  nailer, 

so  you  are! 
I  thought  I  should  'ave  choked  you  off  with 

that  'ere  motor-car. 
Well,  mister,  'ere's  another;  and,  mind  you, 

it's  a  fact, 
Though  you'll  think  perhaps  I  copped  it 

out  o'  some  blue  ribbon  tract. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  farmer  men  were 

jolly-faced  and  stout, 
For  all  the  cash  was  coinin'  in  and  little 

goin'  out, 

26 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  27 

But  now,  you  see,  the  farmer  men  are 

'ungry-faced  and  thin, 
For  all  the  cash  is  goin'  out  and  little 

comin'  in. 

iJat  in  the  days  I'm  speakin'  of,  before 

the  drop  in  wheat, 
The  life  them  farmers  led  was  such  as 

couldn't  well  be  beat; 
They  went  the  pace  amazin',  they  'unted 

and  they  shot, 
And  this  'ere  Jeremiah  Brown  the  liveliest 

of  the  lot. 

'E  was  a  fine  young  fellar;  the  best  roun' 

'ere  by  far, 
But  just  a  bit  full-blooded,  as  fine  young 

fellars  are; 


28  THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE 

Which  I  know  they  didn't  ought  to,  an'  it's 

very  wrong  of  course, 
But  the  colt  wot  never  capers  makes  a 

mighty  useless  'orse. 

The  lad  was  never  vicious,  but  'e  made  the 
money  go, 

For  'e  was  ready  with  'is  "yes,"  and  back- 
ward with  'is  "no." 

And  so  'e  turned  to  drink  which  is  the 
avenoo  to  'ell, 

An'  'ow  'e  came  to  stop  'imself  is  wot'  I 
'ave  to  tell. 

Four  days  on  end  'e  never  knew  'ow  'e  'ad 

got  to  bed, 
Until  one  mornin'  fifty  clocks  was  tickin' 

in  'is  'ead, 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  29 

And  on  the  same  the  doctor  came,  "You're 

very  near  D.T., 
If  you  don't  stop  yourself,  young  chap, 

you'll  pay  the  price,"  said  'e. 

"It  takes  the  form  of  visions,  as  I  fear 

you'll  quickly  know; 
Perhaps  a  string  o'  monkeys,  all  a-sittin'  in 

a  row, 
Perhaps  it's  frogs  or  beetles,  perhaps  it's 

rats  or  mice, 
There    are    many   sorts    of  visions   and 

there's  none  of  'em  is  nice." 

But  Brown  'e  started  laughin':  "No 
doctor's  muck,"  says  'e, 

"A  take-'em-break-'em  gallop  is  the  only 
cure  for  me! 


30  THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE 

They   'unt  to-day  down   'Orsham  way. 

Bring  round  the  sorrel  mare, 
If  them  monkeys  come  inquirin'  you  can 

send   'em  on  down  there." 

Well,  Jeremiah  rode  to  'ounds,  exactly  ar, 

'e  said. 
But  all  the  time  the  doctor's  words  \vc. 

ringin'  in  'is  'ead  - 
"If  you  don't  stop  yourself ,  young  cha 

you've  got  to  pay  the  price, 
There  are  many  sorts  of  visions,  but  noi  : 

of  'em  is  nice." 

They  found  that  day  at  Leonards  Lee  and 

ran  to  Shipley  Wood, 
'Ell-for-leather  all   the  way,  with  scent 

and  weather  good. 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  31 

Never  a  check  to  'Orton  Beck  and  on 
across  the  Weald, 

And  all  the  way  the  Sussex  clay  was  weed- 
in'  out  the  field. 

There's  not  a  man  among  them  could 

remember  such  a  run, 
Straight  as  a  rule  to  Bramber  Pool  and  on 

by  Annington, 
They  followed    still    past    Breeding    'ill 

and  on  by  Steyning  Town, 
Until  they'd  cleared  the  'edges  and  were 

out  upon  the  Down. 

Full  thirty  mile  from  Plimmers  Style, 
without  a  check  or  fault, 

Full  thirty  mile  the  'ounds  'ad  run  and 
never  called  a  'alt. 


32  THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE 

One  by  one  the  Field  was  done  until  at 

Finden  Down, 
There  was  no  one  with  the  'untsman  save 

young  Jeremiah  Brown. 

And  then  the  'untsman  'e  was  beat.     'Is 

'orse  'ad  tripped  and  fell. 
"By  George,"  said  Brown,  "I'll  go  alone, 

and  follow  it  to  —  well, 
The  place  that  it  belongs  to."    And  as  'e 

made  the  vow, 
There  broke  from  right  in  front  of  Mm 

the  queerest  kind  of  row. 

There  lay  a  copse  of  'azels  on  the  border 

of  the  track, 
And  into  this  two  'ounds  'ad  run  —  them 

two  was  all  the  pack  - 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  33 

And  now  from  these  'ere  'azels  there  came 

a  fearsome  'owl, 
With  a  yappin'  and  a  snappin'  and  a 

wicked   snarlin'  growl. 

Jeremiah's  blood  ran  cold  —  a  frightened 

man  was  'e, 
But  he  butted  through  the  bushes  just 

to  see  what  'e  could  see, 
And  there  beneath  their  shadow,  blood 

drippin'  from  his  jaws, 
Was  an  awful  creature  standin'  with    a 

'ound  beneath  its  paws. 

A   fox?    Five   foxes   rolled   in   one  —  a 

pony's  weight  and  size, 
A   rampin',   ragin'  devil,  all    fangs   and 

'air  and  eyes; 


34  THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE 

Too  scared  to  speak,  with  shriek  on  shriek, 
Brown  galloped  from  the  sight 

With  just  one  thought  within  'is  mind  — 
"The  doctor  told  me  right." 

That  evenin'  late  the  minister  was  seated 

in  his  study, 
When  in  there  rushed  a  'untin'  man,  all 

travel-stained  and  muddy, 
" Give  me  the  Testament! " he  cried,  "And 

'ear  my  sacred  vow, 
That  not  one  drop  of  drink  shall  ever  pass 

my  lips  from  now." 

'E  swore  it  and  'e  kept  it  and  'e  keeps  it  to 

this  day, 
'E  'as  turned  from  gin  to  ginger  and  says  'e 

finds  it  pay, 


THE  GROOM'S  ENCORE  35 

You  can  search  the  whole  o'  Sussex  from 

'ere  to  Brighton  Town, 
And  you  wouldn't  find  a  better  man  than 

Jeremiah  Brown. 

And  the  vision  —  it  was  just  a  wolf,  a  big 
Siberian, 

A  great,  fierce,  'ungry  devil  from  a  show- 
man's caravan, 

But  it  saved  'im  from  perdition  —  and  I 
don't  mind  if  I  do, 

I  'aven't  seen  no  wolf  myself  —  so  'ere's 
my  best  to  you! 


THE  BAY  HORSE 

Squire  wants  the  bay  horse, 

For  it  is  the  best. 
Squire  holds  the  mortgage; 

Where's  the  interest? 
Haven't  got  the  interest, 

Can't  raise  a  sou; 
Shan't  sell  the  bay  horse, 

Whatever  he  may  do. 


Did  you  see  the  bay  horse? 

Such  a  one  to  go! 
He  took  a  bit  of  ridin', 

When  I  showed  him  at  the  Show. 
36 


THE  BAY  HORSE  37 

First  prize  the  broad  jump, 

First  prize  the  high; 
Gold  medal,  Class  A, 

You'll  see  it  by-and-by. 

I  bred  the  bay  horse 

On  the  Withy  Farm. 
I  broke  the  bay  horse, 

He  broke  my  arm. 
Don't  blame  the  bay  horse, 

Blame  the  brittle  bone, 
I  bred  him  and  I've  fed  him, 

And  he's  all  my  very  own. 

Just  watch  the  bay  horse 

Chock  full  of  sense! 
Ain't  he  just  beautiful, 

Risin'  to  a  fence! 


38  THE  BAY  HORSE 

Just  hear  the  bay  horse 

Whinin'  in  his  stall, 
Purrin'  like  a  pussy  cat 

When  he  hears  me  call. 
But  if  Squire's  lawyer 

Serves  me  with  his  writ, 
I'll  take  the  bay  horse 

To  Marley  gravel  pit. 
Over  the  quarry  edge, 

I'll  sit  him  tight, 
If  he  wants  the  brown  hide, 

He's  welcome  to  the  white! 


THE   OUTCASTS 

Three  women  stood  by  the  river's  flood 
In  the  gas-lamp's  murky  light, 

A  devil  watched  them  on  the  left, 
And  an  angel  on  the  right. 

The  clouds  of  lead  flowed  overhead; 

The  leaden  stream  below; 
They  marvelled  much,  that  outcast  three, 

Why  Fate  should  use  them  so. 

Said  one:    "I  have  a  mother  dear, 

Who  lieth  ill  abed, 
And  by  my  sin  the  wage  I  win 

From  which  she  hath  her  bread." 

39 


40  THE  OUTCASTS 

Said  one:     "I  am  an  outcast's  child, 
And  such  I  came  on  earth. 

If  me  ye  blame,  for  this  my  shame, 
Whom  blame  ye  for  my  birth?" 

The  third  she  sank  a  sin-blotched  face, 
And  prayed  that  she  might  rest, 

In  the  weary  flow  of  the  stream  below, 
As  on  her  mother's  breast. 

Now  past  there  came  a  godly  man, 
Of  goodly  stock  and  blood, 

And  as  he  passed  one  frown  he  cast 
At  that  sad  sisterhood. 

Sorely  it  grieved  that  godly  man, 

To  see  so  foul  a  sight, 
He  turned  his  face,  and  strode  apace, 

And  left  them  to  the  night. 


THE  OUTCASTS  41 

But  the  angel  drew  her  sisters  three, 

Within  her  pinions'  span, 
And  the  crouching  devil  slunk  away 

To  join  the  godly  man. 


THE  END 

"Tell  me  what   to  get  and   I  will   get 

it." 
"Then get  that  picture  —  that  —  the 

girl  in  white." 
"  Now  tell  me  where  you  wish  that  I  should 

set  it." 

"Lean  it  where  I  can  see  it  —  in  the 
light." 

"If  there  is  more,  sir,  you  have  but  to  say 

it." 

"Then  bring    those   letters  —  those 
which  He  nnnrt." 


THE  END  43 

"Here  is  the  packet!    Tell  me  where  to 

lay  it." 

"Stoop   over,  nurse,   and   lay  it  on 
my  heart." 

"Thanks  for   your    silence,    nurse!    You 

understand  me! 
And    now   I'll    try    to   manage    for 

myself. 
But,  as  you  go,  I'll  trouble  you  to  hand 

me 

The  small  blue  bottle  there  upon  the 
shelf. 

"And  so  farewell!      I    feel    that    I    am 

keeping 

The  sunlight  from  you;  may  your 
walk  be  bright! 


44  THE  END 

When  you  return  I  may  perchance  be 

sleeping, 

So,  ere  you  go,  one  hand-clasp    .    .    . 
and  good  night!" 


1902-1909 

They  recruited  William  Evans 

From  the  ploughtail  and  the  spade; 

Ten  years'  service  in  the  Devons 

Left  him  smart  as  they  are  made. 

Thirty  or  a  trifle  older, 

Rather  over  six  foot  high, 
Trim  of  waist  and  broad  of  shoulder, 

Yellow-haired  and  blue  of  eye; 

Short  of  speech  and  very  solid, 
Fixed  in  purpose  as  a  rock, 

Slow,  deliberate,  and  stolid, 

Of  the  real  West-country  stock. 

45 


46  1902-1909 

He  had  never  been  to  college, 

Got  his  teaching  in  the  corps, 

You  can  pick  up  useful  knowledge 
'Twixt   Saltash   and   Singapore. 


Old  Field-Cornet  Piet  van  Celling 

Lived  just  northward  of  the  Vaal, 

And  he  called  his  white-washed  dwelling, 
Blesbock  Farm,  Rhenoster  Kraal. 

In  his  politics  unbending, 

Stern  of  speech  and  grim  of  face, 
He  pursued  the  never-ending 

Quarrel  with  the  English  race. 

Grizzled  hair  and  face  of  copper, 

Hard  as  nails  from  work  and  sport, 


1902-1909  47 

Just  the  model  of  a  Dopper 

Of  the  fierce  old  fighting  sort. 


With  a  shaggy  bearded  quota 
On  commando  at  his  order, 

He  went  off  with  Louis  Botha 

Trekking  for  the  British  border. 

When  Natal  was  first  invaded 

He  was  fighting  night  and  day, 

Then  he  scouted  and  he  raided, 
With  De  Wet  and  Delarey. 

Till  he  had  a  brush  with  Plumer, 

Got  a  bullet  in  his  arm, 
And  returned  in  sullen  humour 

To  the  shelter  of  his  farm. 


48  1902-1909 

Now  it  happened  that  the  Devons, 
Moving  up  in  that  direction, 

Sent  their  Colour-Sergeant  Evans 
Foraging  with  half  a  section. 

By  a  friendly  Dutchman  guided, 
A  Van  Eloff  or  De  Vilier, 

They  were  promptly  trapped  and  hided, 
In  a  manner  too  familiar. 

When  the  sudden  scrap  was  ended, 
And  they  sorted  out  the  bag, 

Sergeant  Evans  lay  extended 
Mauseritis  in  his  leg. 

So  the  Kaffirs  bore  him,  cursing, 
From  the  scene  of  his  disaster, 


1902-1909  49 

And  they  left  him  to  the  nursing 

Of  the  daughters  of  their  master. 

Now  the  second  daughter,  Sadie  — 

But  the  subject  why  pursue? 

Wounded  youth  and  tender  lady, 

Ancient  tale  but  ever  new. 


On  the  stoep  they  spent  the  gloaming, 
Watched  the  shadows  on  the  veldt, 

Or  she  led  her  cripple  roaming 
To  the  eucalyptus  belt. 

He  would  lie  and  play  with  Jacko, 

The  baboon  from  Bushman's  Kraal, 

Smoked  Magaliesberg  tobacco 

While  she  lisped  to  him  in  Taal. 


5o  1902-1909 

Till  he  felt  that  he  had  rather 

He  had  died  amid  the  slaughter, 

If  the  harshness  of  the  father 

Were  not  softened  in  the  daughter. 

So  he  asked  an  English  question, 
And  she  answered  him  in  Dutch, 

But  her  smile  was  a  suggestion, 
And  he  treated  it  as  such. 


Now  among  Rhenoster  kopjes 

Somewhat  northward  of  the  Vaal, 

You  may  see  four  little  chappies, 
Three  can  walk  and  one  can  crawl. 

And  the  blue  of  Transvaal  heavens 
Is  reflected  in  their  eyes, 


1902-1909 

Each  a  little  William  Evans, 
Smaller  model  —  pocket  size. 

Each  a  little  Burgher  Piet 
Of  the  hardy  Boer  race, 

Two  great  peoples  seem  to  meet 
In  the  tiny  sunburned  face. 

And  they  often  greatly  wonder 
Why  old  granddad  and  Papa, 

Should  have  been  so  far  asunder, 
Till  united  by  mamma. 

And  when  asked,  "Are  you  a  Boer, 
Or  a  little  Englishman?" 

Each  will  answer,  short  and  sure, 
"I  am  a  South  African." 


52  1902-1909 

But  the  father  answers,  chaffing, 
"Africans  but  British  too." 

And  the  children  echo,  laughing, 
"Half  of  mother  — half  of  you." 

It  may  seem  a  crude  example, 

In  an  isolated  case, 
But  the  story  is  a  sample 

Of  the  welding  of  the  race. 

So  from  bloodshed  and  from  sorrow, 
From  the  pains  of  yesterday, 

Comes  the  nation  of  to-morrow 
Broadly  based  and  built  to  stay. 

Loyal  spirits  strong  in  union, 

Joined  by  kindred  faith  and  blood ; 

Brothers  in  the  wide  communion 
Of   our   sea-girt   brotherhood. 


THE  WANDERER1 

'Twas  in  the  shadowy  gloaming 
Of  a  cold  and  wet  March  day, 

That  a  wanderer  came  roaming 
From  countries  far  away. 

Scant  raiment  had  he  round  him, 
Nor  purse,  nor  worldly  gear, 

Hungry  and  faint  we  found  him, 
And  bade  him  welcome  here. 

His  weary  frame  bent  double, 
His  eyes  were  old  and  dim, 

His  face  was  writhed  with  trouble 

Which  none  might  share  with  him. 

'With  acknowledgment  to  my  friend  Sir  A.  Quiller-Couch. 
S3 


54  THE  WANDERER 

His  speech  was  strange  and  broken, 
And  none  could  understand, 

Such  words  as  might  be  spoken 
In  some  far  distant  land. 

We  guessed  not  whence  he  hailed  from. 
Nor  knew  what  far-off  quay 

His  roving  bark  had  sailed  from 
Before  he  came  to  me. 

But  there  he  was,  so  slender, 

So  helpless  and  so  pale, 
That  my  wife's  heart  grew  tender 

For  one  who  seemed  so  frail. 

iShe  cried,  "But  you  must  bide  here! 

You  shall  no  further  roam. 
Grow  stronger  by  our  side  here, 

Within  our  moorland  home!" 


THE  WANDERER  55 

She  laid  her  best  before  him, 

Homely  and  simple  fare, 
And  to  his  couch  she  bore  him 

The  raiment  he  should  wear. 

To  mine  he  had  been  welcome, 

My  suit  of  russet  brown, 
But  she  had  dressed  our  weary  guest 

In  a  loose  and  easy  gown. 

And  long  in  peace  he  lay  there, 
Brooding  and  still  and  weak, 

Smiling  from  day  to  day  there 

At  thoughts  he  would  not  speak. 

The  months  flowed  on,  but  ever 
Our  guest  would  still  remain, 

Nor  made  the  least  endeavour 
To  leave  our  home  again. 


$6  THE  WANDERER 

He  heeded  not  for  grammar, 
Nor  did  we  care  to  teach, 

But  soon  he  learned  to  stammer 
Some  words  of  English  speech. 

With  these  our  guest  would  tell  us 
The  things  that  he  liked  best, 

And  order  and  compel  us 
To  follow  his  behest. 

He  ruled  us  without  malice, 
But  as  if  he  owned  us  all, 

A  sultan  in  his  palace 

With  his  servants  at  his  call. 

Those  calls  came  fast  and  faster, 
Our  service  still  we  gave, 

Till  I  who  had  been  master 

Had  grown  to  be  his  slave. 


THE  WANDERER  57 

He  claimed  with  grasping  gestures 
Each  thing  of  price  he  saw, 

Watches  and  rings  and  vestures, 
His  will  the  only  law. 

In  vain  had  I  commanded, 

In  vain  I  struggled  still, 
Servants  and  wife  were  banded 

To  do  the  stranger's  will. 

And  then  in  deep  dejection 

It  came  to  me  one  day, 
That  my  own  wife's  affection 

Had  been  beguiled  away. 

Our  love  had  known  no  danger, 

So  certain  had  it  been! 
And  now  to  think  a  stranger 

Should  dare  to  step  between. 


58  THE  WANDERER 

I  saw  him  lie  and  barken 

To  the  little  songs  she  sung, 

And  when  the  shadows  darken 
I  could  hear  his  lisping  tongue. 

They  would  sit  in  chambers  shady, 
When  the  light  was  growing  dim. 

Ah,  my  fickle-hearted  lady! 

With  your  arm  embracing  him. 

So,  at  last,  lest  he  divide  us, 
I  would  put  them  to  the  test. 

There  was  no  one  there  beside  us, 
Save    this    interloping    guest. 

So  I  took  my  stand  before  them, 

Very  silent  and  erect, 
My  accusing  glance  passed  o'er  them, 

Though  with  no  observed  effect. 


THE  WANDERER  59 

But  the  lamp  light  shone  upon  her, 
And  I  saw  each  tell-tale  feature, 

As  I  cried,  "Now,  on  your  honour, 
Do  or  don't  you  love  the  creature?" 

But  her  answer  seemed  evasive, 
It  was  "Ducky-doodle-doo! 

If  his  mummy  loves  um  babby, 

Doesn't  daddums  love  um  too?" 


BENDY'S  SERMON 

[Bendigo,  the  well-known  Nottingham 
prize  fighter,  became  converted  to  religion, 
and  preached  at  revival  meetings  throughout 
the  country.] 

You  didn't  know  of  Bendigo!    Well,  that 

knocks  me  out! 
Who's  your  board  school  teacher?    What's 

he  been  about? 
Chock-a-block  with  fairy-tales  —  full  of 

useless  cram, 
And  never  heard  o'  Bendigo,  the  pride  of 

Nottingham ! 
60 


BENDY'S  SERMON  61 

Bendy's  short  for  Bendigo.    You  should 

see  him  peel! 
Half  of  him  was  whalebone,  half  of  him 

was  steel, 
Fightin'  weight  eleven  ten,  five  foot  nine 

in  height, 
Always  ready  to    oblige  if  you    want  a 

fight. 


I  could  talk  of  Bendigo  from  here  to  king- 
dom come, 

I  guess  before  I  ended  you  would  wish  your 
dad  was  dumb. 

I'd  tell  you  how  he  fought  Ben  Caunt,  and 
how  the  deaf  'un  fell, 

But  the  game  is  done,  and  the  men  are 
gone  —  and  maybe  it's  as  well. 


62  BENDY'S  SERMON 

Bendy  he  turned  Methodist  —  he  said  he 

felt  a  call, 
He  stumped  the  country  preachin'  and  you 

bet  he  filled  the  hall, 
If  you  seed   him  in   the  pulpit,  a-bleatin' 

like  a  lamb, 
You'd    never  know    bold    Bendigo,    the 

pride  of  Nottingham. 


His  hat  was  like  a  funeral,  he'd  got  a 

waiter's  coat, 
With  a  hallelujah  collar  and  a  choker  round 

his  throat, 
His  pals  would  laugh  and  say  in  chaff  that 

Bendigo  was  right, 
In  takin'  on  the  devil,  since  he'd  no  one 

else  to  fight. 


BENDY'S  SERMON  63 

But  he  was  very  earnest,  improvin'  day  by 

day, 
A-workin'  and  a-preachin'  just  as  his  duty 

lay, 
But  the  devil  he  was  waitin',  and  in  the 

final  bout, 
He  hit  him  hard  below  his    guard  and 

knocked  poor  Bendy  out. 


Now  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  He 
was  preachin'  down  at  Brum, 

He  was  billed  just  like  a  circus,  you  should 
see  the  people  come, 

The  chapel  it  was  crowded,  and  in  the  fore- 
most row, 

There  was  half  a  dozen  bruisers  who'd  a 
grudge  at  Bendigo. 


64  BENDY'S  SERMON 

There  was  Tommy  Platt  of  Bradford, 
Solly  Jones  of  Perry  Bar, 

Long  Connor  from  the  Bull  Ring,  the 
same  wot  drew  with  Carr, 

Jack  Ball  the  fightin'  gunsmith,  Joe  Mur- 
phy from  the  Mews, 

And  Iky  Moss,  the  bettin'  boss,  the 
Champion  of  the  Jews. 


A  very  pretty  handful  a-sittin'  in  a 
string, 

Full  of  beer  and  impudence,  ripe  for  any- 
thing, 

Sittin'  in  a  string  there,  right  under 
Bendy's  nose, 

If  his  message  was  for  sinners,  he  could 
make  a  start  on  those. 


BENDY'S  SERMON  65 

Soon  he  heard  them  chaffin';  "Hi,  Bendy! 

Here's  a  go!" 
4 'How  much  are  you  coppin'  by  this  Jump 

to  Glory  show?" 
"Stow  it,  Bendy!   Left  the  ring!   Mighty 

spry  of  you ! 
Didn't   everybody   know   the   ring   was 

leavin'  you." 


Bendy  fairly  sweated  as  he  stood  above 

and  prayed, 
"Look  down,  0  Lord,  and  grip  me  with 

a  strangle  hold!"  he  said. 
"  Fix  me  with  a  strangle  hold !    Put  a  stop 

on  me! 
I'm  slipping  Lord,  I'm  slippin'  and  I'm 

clingin'  hard  to  Thee ! " 


66  BENDY'S  SERMON 

But  the  roughs  they  kept  on  chaffin'  and 

the  uproar  it  was  such 
That  the  preacher  in  the  pulpit  might  be 

talkin'  double  Dutch, 
Till  a  workin'  man  he  shouted  out,  a- 

jumpin'  to  his  feet, 
"  Give  us  a  lead, your  reverence,  and  heave 

'em  in  the  street." 


Then   Bendy    said,     "Good    Lord,  since 

first  I  left  my  sinful  ways, 
Thou  knowest  that  to  Thee  alone  I've 

given  up  my  days, 
But  now,  dear  Lord" — and  here  he  laid  his 

Bible  on  the  shelf — 
"I'll  take,  with  your  permission,  just  five 

minutes  for  myself." 


BENDY'S  SERMON  67 

He  vaulted  from  the  pulpit  like  a  tiger 

from  a  den, 
They  say  it  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see  him 

floor  his  men; 
Right  and  left,  and  left  and  right,  straight 

and  true  and  hard, 
Till  the  Ebenezer  Chapel  looked  more  like 

a  knacker's  yard. 


Platt  was  standin'  on  his  back  and  lookin' 

at  his  toes, 
Solly  Jones  of  Perry  Bar  was  feelin'  for 

his  nose, 
Connor  of  the  Bull  Ring  had  all  that  he 

could  do 
Rakin'  for  his  ivories  that  lay  about  the 

pew. 


68  BENDY'S  SERMON 

Jack  Ball  the  fightin'  gunsmith  was  in  a 

peaceful  sleep, 
Joe  Murphy  lay  across  him,  all  tied  up 

in  a  heap, 
Five  of  them  was  twisted  in  a  tangle  on 

the  floor, 
And  Iky  Moss,  the  bettin'  boss,  had 

sprinted  for  the  door. 


Five  repentant  fightin'  men,  sitting  in  a 

row, 
Listenin'  to  words  of  grace  from  Mister 

Bendigo, 
Listenin'  to  his  reverence  —  all  as  good 

as  gold, 
Pretty  little  baa-lambs,  gathered  to  the 

fold. 


BENDY'S  SERMON  69 

So  that's  the  way  that  Bendy  ran  his 

mission  in  the  slum, 
And  preached  the  Holy  Gospel  to  the 

fightin'  men  of  Brum, 
"The  Lord,"  said  he,  " has  given  me  His 

message  from  on  high, 
And  if    you  interrupt  Him,  I  will  know 

the  reason  why." 


But  to  think  of  all  your  schooling  clean 

wasted,  thrown  away, 
Darned  if  I  can  make  out  what  you're 

learnin'  all  the  day, 
Grubbin'  up  old  fairy-tales,  nllin'  up  with 

cram, 
And  didn't  know  of  Bendigo,  the  pride 

of  Nottingham. 


II 

PHILOSOPHIC  VERSES 


COMPENSATION 

The  grime  is  on  the  window  pane, 
Pale  the  London  sunbeams  fall, 

And  show  the  smudge  of  mildew  stain, 
Which  lies  on  the  distempered  wall. 

I  am  a  cripple,  as  you  see, 

And  here  I  lie,  a  broken  thing, 

But  God  has  given  flight  to  me, 

That  mocks  the  swiftest  eagle  wing. 

For  if  I  will  to  see  or  hear, 

Quick  as  the  thought  my  spirit  flies, 
And  lo !  the  picture  flashes  clear, 

Through  all  the  mist  of  centuries. 

73 


74  COMPENSATION 

I  can  recall  the  Tigris'  strand, 

Where  once  the  Turk  and  Tartar  met, 
When  the  great  Lord  of  Samarcand 

Struck  down  the  Sultan  Bajazet. 

Under  a  ten-league  swirl  of  dust 

The  roaring  battle  swings  and  sways, 

Now  reeling  down,  now  upward  thrust, 
The   crescent   sparkles  through   the 
haze. 

I  see  the  Janissaries  fly, 

I  see  the  chain-mailed  leader  fall, 
I  hear  the  Tekbar  clear  and  high, 

The   true  believer's  battle-call. 

And  tossing  o'er  the  press  I  mark 

The  horse-tail  banner  over  all, 


COMPENSATION  75 

Shaped  like  the  smudge  of  mildew  dark 
That  lies  on  the  distempered  wall. 

And  thus  the  meanest  thing  I  see 
Will  set  a  scene  within  my  brain, 

And  every  sound  that  comes  to  me, 

Will  bring  strange  echoes  back  again. 

Hark  now!     In  rhythmic  monotone, 
You  hear  the  murmur  of  the  mart, 

The  low,  deep,  unremitting  moan, 

That   comes   from   weary   London's 
heart. 

But  I  can  change  it  to  the  hum 
Of  multitudinous  acclaim, 

When  triple-walled  Byzantium, 
Re-echoes  the  Imperial  name. 


76  COMPENSATION 

I  hear  the  beat  of  armed  feet, 

The  legions  clanking  on  their  way, 

The  long  shout  runs  from  street  to  street, 
With  rolling  drum  and  trumpet  bray. 

So  I  hear  it  rising,  falling, 

Till  it  dies  away  once  more, 

And  I  hear  the  costers  calling 

Mid  the  weary  London  roar. 

Who  shall  pity  then  the  lameness. 

Which  still  holds  me  from  the  ground? 

Who  commiserate  the  sameness 
Of  the  scene  that  girds  me  round? 

Though  I  lie  a  broken  wreck, 

Though  I  seem  to  want  for  all, 

Still  the  world  is  at  my  beck 
And  the  ages  at  my  call. 


THE  BANNER  OF  PROGRESS 

There's  a  banner  in  our  van, 
And  we  follow  as  we  can, 
For  at  times  we  scarce  can  see  it, 
And  at  times  it  flutters  high. 
But  however  it  be  flown, 
Still  we  know  it  as  our  own, 
And  we  follow,   ever  follow, 
Where  we  see  the  banner  fly. 

In  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 
In  the  weariness  of  life, 
The  banner-man  may  stumble, 
He  may  falter  in  the  fight. 

77 


78        THE  BANNER  OF  PROGRESS 

But  if  one  should  fail  or  slip, 
There  are  other  hands  to  grip, 
And  it's  forward,  ever  forward, 
From  the  darkness  to  the  light. 


HOPE 

Faith  may  break  on  reason, 
Faith  may  prove  a  treason 

To  that  highest  gift 

That  is  granted  by  Thy  grace; 
But  Hope!    Ah,   let  us  cherish 
Some  spark  that  may  not  perish, 

Some  tiny  spark  to  cheer  us, 

As  we  wander  through  the  waste! 

A  little  lamp  beside  us, 
A  little  lamp  to  guide  us, 

Where  the  path  is  rocky, 

Where  the  road  is  steep. 

79 


8o  HOPE 

That  when  the  light  falls  dimmer, 

Still  some  God-sent  glimmer 

May  hold  us  steadfast  ever, 
To  the  track  that  we  should  keep. 

Hope  for  the  trending  of  it, 
Hope  for  the  ending  of  it, 
Hope  for  all  around  us, 

That  it  ripens  in  the  sun. 
Hope  for  what  is  waning, 
Hope  for  what  is  gaining, 
Hope  for  what  is  waiting 

When  the  long  day  is  done. 

Hope  that  He,  the  nameless, 
May  still  be  best  and  blameless, 

Nor  ever  end  His  highest 

With  the  earthworm  and  the  slime. 


HOPE  81 

Hope  that  o'er  the  border, 
There  lies  a  land  of  order, 
With  higher  law  to  reconcile 
The  lower  laws  of  Time. 

Hope  that  every  vexed  life, 

Finds  within  that  next  life, 

Something  that  may  recompense, 
Something  that  may  cheer. 

And  that  perchance  the  lowest  one 

Is  truly  but  the  slowest  one, 
Quickened  by  the  sorrow 
Which  is  waiting  for  him  here. 


RELIGIO  MEDICI 


God's  own  best  will  bide  the  test, 
And  God's  own  worst  will  fall; 

But,  best  or  worst  or  last  or  first, 
He  ordereth  it  all. 


For  all  is  good,  if  understood, 

(Ah,    could    we    understand!) 
And  right  and  ill  are  tools  of  skill 

Held  in  His  either  hand. 

82 


RELIGIO  MEDICI  83 

3 

The  harlot  and  the  anchorite, 
The  martyr  and  the  rake, 

Deftly  He  fashions  each  aright, 
Its  vital  part  to  take. 

4 

Wisdom  He  makes  to  form  the  fruit 
Where  the  high  blossoms  be; 

And  Lust  to  kill  the  weaker  shoot, 
And  Drink  to  trim  the  tree. 

5 

And  Holiness  that  so  the  bole 

Be  solid  at  the  core; 
And  Plague  and  Fever,  that  the  whole 

Be  changing  evermore. 


84  RELIGIO  MEDICI 

6 

He  strews  the  microbes  in  the  lung, 
The  blood-clot  in  the  brain; 

With  test  and  test  He  picks  the  best, 
Then  tests  them  once  again. 

7 

He  tests  the  body  and  the  mind, 
He  rings  them  o'er  and  o'er; 

And  if  they  crack,  He  throws  them  back, 
And  fashions  them  once  more. 

8 

He  chokes  the  infant  throat  with  slime, 
He  sets  the  ferment  free; 

He  builds  the  tiny  tube  of  lime 
That   blocks   the   artery. 


RELIGIO  MEDICI  85 

9 

He  lets  the  youthful  dreamer  store 
Great  projects  in  his  brain, 

Until  He  drops  the  fungus  spore 
That  smears  them  out  again. 

10 

He  stores  the  milk  that  feeds  the  babe, 
He  dulls  the  tortured  nerve; 

He  gives  a  hundred  joys  of  sense 
Where  few  or  none  might  serve. 

ii 

And  still  He  trains  the  branch  of  good 
Where  the  high  blossoms  be, 

And  wieldeth  still  the  shears  of  ill 
To  prune  and  prune  His  tree. 


MAN'S  LIMITATION 

Man  says  that  He  is  jealous, 

Man  says  that  He  is  wise, 
Man  says  that  He  is  watching 

From  His  throne  beyond  the  skies. 
But  perchance  the  arch  above  us 

Is  one  great  mirror's  span, 
And  the  Figure  seen  so  dimly 

Is  a  vast  reflected  man. 

If  it  is  love  that  gave  us 

A  thousand  blossoms  bright, 

Why  should  that  love  not  save  us 
From  poisoned  aconite? 

86 


MAN'S  LIMITATION  87 

If  this  man  blesses  sunshine 

Which  sets  his  fields  aglow, 

Shall  that  man  curse  the  tempest 
That  lays  his  harvest  low? 

If  you  may  sing  His  praises 

For  health  He  gave  to  you, 
What  of  this  spine-curved  cripple, 

Shall  he  sing  praises  too? 
If  you  may  justly  thank  Him 

For  strength  in  mind  and  limb, 
Then  what  of  yonder  weakling  - 

Must  he  give  thanks  to  Him? 

Ah  dark,  too  dark,  the  riddle! 

The  tiny  brain  too  small! 
We  call,  and  fondly  listen, 

For  answer  to  that  call. 


88  MAN'S  LIMITATION 

There  comes  no  word  to  tell  us 
Why  this  and  that  should  be, 

Why  you  should  live  with  sorrow, 
And  joy  should  live  with  me. 


MIND  AND  MATTER 

Great  was  his  soul  and  high  his  aim, 
He  viewed  the  world,  and  he  could  trace 
A  lofty  plan  to  leave  his  name 
Immortal   'mid   the   human   race. 
But  as  he  planned,  and  as  he  worked, 
The  fungus  spore  within  him  lurked. 

Though  dark  the  present  and  the  past, 
The  future  seemed  a  sunlit  thing. 
Still  ever  deeper  and  more  vast, 
The  changes  that  he  hoped  to  bring. 
His  was  the  will  to  dare  and  do; 

But  still  the  stealthy  fungus  grew. 
89 


9o  MIND  AND  MATTER 

Alas  the  plans  that  came  to  nought! 
Alas  the  soul  that  thrilled  in  vain! 
The  sunlit  future  that  he  sought 
Was  but  a  mirage  of  the  brain. 
Where  now  the  wit?    Where  now  the  will? 
The  fungus  is_the  master  still. 


DARKNESS 

A  gentleman  of  wit  and  charm, 

A  kindly  heart,  a  cleanly  mind, 
One  who  was  quick  with  hand  or  purse, 

To  lift  the  burden  of  his  kind. 
A  brain  well  balanced  and  mature, 

A  soul  that  shrank  from  all  things 

base, 
So  rode  he  forth  that  winter  day, 

Complete  in  every  mortal  grace. 

And  then  —  the  blunder  of  a  horse, 

The  crash  upon  the  frozen  clods, 
And  —  Death?    Ah!  no  such  dignity, 

But  Life,  all  twisted  and  at  odds! 
91 


92  DARKNESS 

At  odds  in  body  and  in  soul, 

Degraded  to  some  brutish  state, 

A  being  loathsome  and  malign, 
Debased,  obscene,  degenerate. 

Pathology?    The  case  is  clear, 

The  diagnosis  is  exact; 
A  bone  depressed,  a  haemorrhage, 

The  pressure  on  a  nervous  tract. 
Theology?    Ah,  there's  the  rub! 

Since  brain  and  soul  together  fade, 
Then  when  the  brain  is  dead  —  enough! 

Lord  help  us,  for  we  need  Thine  aid! 


Ill 

MISCELLANEOUS  VERSES 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 

I  am  not  blind  —  I  understand; 

I  see  him  loyal,  good,  and  wise, 
I  feel  decision  in  his  hand, 

I  read  his  honour  in  his  eyes. 
Manliest  among  men  is  he 

With  every  gift  and  grace  to  clothe 

him; 
He  never  loved  a  girl  but  me  - 

And  I  --  I  loathe  him!  —  loathe  him! 

The  other!    Ah!    I  value  him 
Precisely  at  his  proper  rate, 

A  creature  of  caprice  and  whim, 
Unstable,  weak,  importunate. 

95 


96  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 

His  thoughts  are  set  on  paltry  gain  - 
You  only  tell  me  what  I  see  — 

I  know  him  selfish,  cold  and  vain; 
But,  oh!  he's  all  the  world  to  me! 


BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 

Her  cheek  was  wet  with  North  Sea  spray, 

We  walked  where  tide  and  shingle 

meet; 
The  long  waves  rolled  from  far  away 

To  purr  in  ripples  at  our  feet. 
And  as  we  walked  it  seemed  to  me 

That  three  old  friends  had  met  that 

day. 
The  old,  old  sky,  the  old,  old  sea, 

And  love,  which  is  as  old  as  they. 


Out  seaward  hung  the  brooding  mist 
We  saw  it  rolling,  fold  on  fold, 

97 


98  BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 

And  marked  the  great  Sun  alchemist 
Turn  all  its  leaden  edge  to  gold. 

Look  well,  look  well,  oh  lady  mine, 
The  gray  below,  the  gold  above, 

For  so  the  grayest  life  may  shine 
All  golden  in  the  light  of  love. 


DECEMBER'S  SNOW 

The  bloom  is  on  the  May  once  more, 
The  chestnut  buds  have  burst  anew; 

But,  darling,  all  our  springs  are  o'er, 
'Tis  winter  still  for  me  and  you. 

We  plucked  Life's  blossoms  long  ago 

What's  left  is  but  December's  snow. 


But  winter  has  its  joys  as  fair, 
The  gentler  joys,  aloof,  apart; 

The  snow  may  lie  upon  our  hair 
But  never,  darling,  in  our  heart. 

Sweet  were  the  springs  of  long  ago 

But  sweeter  still  December's  snow. 

99 


ioo  DECEMBER'S  SNOW 

Yes,  long  ago,  and  yet  to  me 

It  seems  a  thing  of  yesterday; 
The  shade  beneath  the  willow  tree, 

The  word  you  looked  but  feared  to  say. 
Ah!  when  I  learned  to  love  you  so 
What  recked  we  of  December's  snow? 

But  swift  the  ruthless  seasons  sped 
And  swifter  still  they  speed  away. 

What  though  they  bow  the  dainty  head 
And  fleck  the  raven  hair  with  gray? 

The  boy  and  girl  of  long  ago 

Are  laughing  through  the  veil  of  snow. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION 

Masters,  I  sleep  not  quiet  in  my  grave, 
There  where  they  laid  me,  by  the  Avon 

shore, 

In  that  some  crazy  wights  have  set  it  forth 
By  arguments  most  false  and  fanciful, 
Analogy  and  far-drawn  inference, 
That  Francis  Bacon,  Earl  of  Verulam 
(A  man  whom  I  remember  in  old  days, 
A  learned  judge  with  sly  adhesive  palms, 
To  which  the  suitor's  gold  was  wont  to 

stick)  — 

That  this  same  Verulam  had  writ  the  plays 
Which  were  the  fancies  of  my  frolic  brain. 
What  can  they  urge  to  dispossess  the  crown 


102  SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION 

Which  all  my  comrades  and  the  whole  loud 

world 

Did  in  my  lifetime  lay  upon  my  brow? 
Look  straitly  at  these  arguments  and  see 
How  witless  and  how  fondly  slight  they  be. 
Imprimis,  they  have  urged  that,  being 

born 

In  the  mean  compass  of  a  paltry  town, 
I  could  not  in  my  youth  have  trimmed 

my  mind 

To  such  an  eagle  pitch,  but  must  be  found, 
Like  the  hedge  sparrow,  somewhere  near 

the  ground. 
Bethink  you,  sirs,  that  though  I  was 

denied 

The  learning  which  in  colleges  is  found, 
Yet  may  a  hungry  brain  still  find  its  fo 
Wherever  books  may  lie  or  men  may  be; 


SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION  103 

And  though  perchance  by  Isis  or  by  Cam 
The  meditative,  philosophic  plant 
May  best  luxuriate;  yet  some  would  say 
That  in  the  task  of  limning  mortal  life 
A  fitter  preparation  might  be  made 
Beside  the  banks  of  Thames.    And  then 

again, 

If  I  be  suspect,  in  that  I  was  not 
A  fellow  of  a  college,  how,  I  pray, 
Will  Jonson  pass,  or  Marlowe,  or  the  rest, 
Whose   measured   verse   treads   with  as 

proud  a  gait 
As  that  which  was  my  own?  Whence  did 

they  suck 
This  honey  that  they  stored?    Can  you 

recite 

The  vantages  which  each  of  these  has  had 
And  I  had  not?     Or  is  the  argument 


104  SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION 

That  my  Lord  Verulam  hath  written  all, 
And  covers  in  his  wide-embracing  self 
The  stolen  fame  of  twenty  smaller  men? 
You    prate    about    my    learning.     I 

would  urge 

My  want  of  learning  rather  as  a  proof 
That  I  am  still  myself.     Have  I  not  traced 
A  seaboard  to  Bohemia,  and  made 
The  cannons  roar  a  whole  wide  century 
Before  the  first  was  forged?    Think  you, 

then, 

That  he,  the  ever-learned  Verulam, 
Would  have  erred  thus?    So  may  my  very 

faults 

In  their  gross  falseness  prove  that  I  am  true, 
And  by  that  falseness  gender  truth  in  you. 
And  what  is  left?  They  say  that  they 

have  found 


SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION  105 

A  script,  wherein  the  writer  tells  my  Lord 
He  is  a  secret  poet.    True  enough! 
But  surely  now  that  secret  is  o'er  past. 
Have  you  not  read  his  poems?     Know 

you  not 

That  in  our  day  a  learned  chancellor 
Might  better  far  dispense  unjustest  law 
Than  be  suspect  of  such  frivolity 
As  lies  in  verse?    Therefore  his  poetry 
Was  secret.    Now  that  he  is  gone 
'Tis  so  no  longer.     You  may  read  his  verse, 
And  judge  if  mine  be  better  or  be  worse : 
Read   and   pronounce!    The   meed   of 

praise  is  thine; 

But  still  let  his  be  his  and  mine  be  mine. 
I  say  no  more;  but  how  can  you  for- 
swear 
Outspoken  Jonson,  he  who  knew  me  well; 


io6  SHAKESPEARE'S  EXPOSTULATION 

So,  too,  the  epitaph  which  still  you  read? 
Think  you  they  faced  my  sepulchre  with 

lies  — 

Gross  lies,  so  evident  and  palpable 
That  every  townsman  must  have  wot  of  it, 
And  not  a  worshipper  within  the  church 
But  must  have  smiled  to  see  the  marbled 

fraud? 

Surely  this  touches  you?    But  if  by  chance 
My  reasoning  still  leaves  you  obdurate, 
I'll  lay  one  final  plea.     I  pray  you  look 
On  my  presentment,  as  it  reaches  you. 
My  features  shall  be  sponsors  for  my  fame; 
My  brow  shall  speak  when  Shakespeare's 

voice  is  dumb, 
And  be  his  warrant  in  an  age  to  come. 


THE  EMPIRE 

1902 

They  said  that  it  had  feet  of  clay, 
That  its  fall  was  sure  and  quick. 

In  the  flames  of  yesterday 

All  the  clay  was  burned  to  brick. 

When  they  carved  our  epitaph 

And  marked  us  doomed  beyond  recall, 

"We  are,"  we  answered,  with  a  laugh, 
""The  Empire  that  declines  to  fall." 


A  VOYAGE 

1909 

Breathing  the  stale  and  stuffy  air 

Of  office  or  consulting  room, 
Our  thoughts  will  wander  back  to  where 

We  heard  the  low  Atlantic  boom, 
And,  creaming  underneath  our  screw, 

We  watched  the  swirling  waters  break, 
Silver  filagrees  on  blue 

Spreading  fan-wise  in  our  wake. 

Cribbed  within  the  city's  fold, 
Fettered  to  our  daily  round, 

We'll  conjure  up  the  haze  of  gold 

Which  ringed  the  wide  horizon  round. 

108 


A  VOYAGE  109 

And  still  we'll  break  the  sordid  day 
By  fleeting  visions  far  and  fair, 

The  silver  shield  of  Vigo  Bay, 

The  long  brown  cliff  of  Finisterre. 

Where  once  the  Roman  galley  sped, 

Or  Moorish  corsair  spread  his  sail, 
By  wooded  shore,  or  sunlit  head, 

By  barren  hill  or  sea-washed  vale 
We  took  our  way.    But  we  can  swear, 

That  many  countries  we  have  scanned, 
But  never  one  that  could  compare 

With  our  own  island  mother-land. 

The  dream  is  o'er.     No  more  we  view 
The  shores  of  Christian  or  of  Turk, 

But  turning  to  our  tasks  anew, 

We  bend  us  to  our  wonted  work. 


no  A  VOYAGE 

But  there  will  come  to  you  and  me 
Some  glimpse  of  spacious  days  gone 

by, 

The  wide,  wide  stretches  of  the  sea, 
The  mighty  curtain  of  the  sky. 


THE  ORPHANAGE 

When,  ere  the  tangled  web  is  reft, 

The   kid-gloved   villain   scowls   and 

sneers, 
And  hapless  innocence  is  left 

With  no  assets  save  sighs  and  tears, 
'Tis  then,  just  then,  that  in  there  stalks 

The  hero,  watchful  of  her  needs; 
He  talks,  Great  heavens  how  he  talks! 

But  we  forgive  him,  for  his  deeds. 

Life  is  the  drama  here  to-day 

And  Death  the  villain  of  the  plot. 

It  is  a  realistic  play. 

Shall  it  end  well  or  shall  it  not? 


U2  THE  ORPHANAGE 

The  hero?    Oh,  the  hero's  part 

Is  vacant  —  to  be  played  by  you. 

Then  act  it  well!    An  orphan's  heart 
May  beat  the  lighter  if  you  do. 


SEXAGENARIUS  LOQUITUR 

From  our  youth  to  our  age 
We  have  passed  each  stage 

In   old   immemorial    order, 
From  primitive  days 
Through  flowery  ways 

With  love  like  a  hedge  as  their  border. 
Ah,  youth  was  a  kingdom  of  joy, 

And  we  were  the  king  and  the  queen, 
When  I  was  a  year 
Short  of  thirty,  my  dear, 

And  you  were  just  nearing  nineteen. 
But  dark  follows  light 
And  day  follows  night 

As  the  old  planet  circles  the  sun; 

"3 


ii4        SEXAGENARIUS  LOQUITUR 

And  nature  still  traces 
Her  score  on  our  faces 

And  tallies  the  years  as  they  run. 
Have  they  chilled  the  old  warmth  in  your 

heart? 

I  swear  that  they  have  not  in  mine, 
Though  I  am  a  year 
Short  of  sixty,  my  dear, 
And  you  are  —  well,  say  thirty-nine. 


NIGHT  VOICES 

Father,  father,  who  is  that  a-whispering? 
Who  is  it  who  whispers  in  the  wood? 
You  say  it  is  the  breeze 
As  it  sighs  among  the  trees, 
But  there's  some  one  who  whispers  in  the 
wood. 

Father,  father,  who  is  that  a-murmuring? 
Who  is  it  who  murmurs  in  the  night? 
You  say  it  is  the  roar 
Of  the  wave  upon  the  shore, 
But  there's  some  one  who  murmurs  in  the 
night. 


n6  NIGHT  VOICES 

Father,  father,  who  is  that  who  laughs 

at  us? 

Who  is  it  who  chuckles  in  the  glen? 
Oh,  father,  let  us  go, 
For  the  light  is  burning  low, 
And  there's  somebody  laughing  in  the 
glen. 

Father,  father,  tell  me  what  you're  waiting 

for, 

Tell  me  why  your  eyes  are  on  the 
door. 

It  is  dark  and  it  is  late, 
But  you  sit  so  still  and  straight, 
Ever  staring,  ever  smiling,  at  the  door. 


THE   MESSAGE 
(From  HEINE) 

Up,  dear  laddie,  saddle  quick, 

And  spring  upon  the  leather! 

Away  post  haste  o'er  fell  and  waste 
With  whip  and  spur  together! 

And  when  you  win  to  Duncan's  kin 
Draw  one  of  them  aside 

And  shortly  say,  "Which  daughter  may 
We  welcome  as  the  bride  ?" 

And  if  he  says,  "It  is  the  dark," 

Then  quickly  bring  the  mare, 
But  if  he  says,  "It  is  the  blonde," 

Then  you  have  time  to  spare; 
117 


n8  THE  MESSAGE 

But  buy  from  off  the  saddler  man 
The  stoutest  cord  you  see, 

Ride  at  your  ease  and  say  no  word, 
But  bring  it  back  to  me. 


.• 


THE  ECHO 

(After  HEINE) 

Through  the  lonely  mountain  land 
There  rode  a  cavalier. 

"Oh  ride  I  to  my  darling's  arms, 
Or  to  the  grave  so  drear?" 
The  Echo  answered   clear, 
"The  grave   so   drear." 

So  onward  rode  the  cavalier 

And   clouded   was   his   brow. 

"If  now  my  hour  be  truly  come, 
Ah  well,  it  must  be  now!" 
The  Echo  answered  low, 

"It  must  be  now." 
119 


ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  AUTHOR 

First  begin 
Taking  in. 
Cargo  stored, 
All  aboard, 
Think  about 
Giving  out. 
Empty  ship, 
Useless  trip! 

Never  strain 
Weary  brain. 
Hardly  fit, 
Wait  a  bit! 
After  rest 
Comes  the  best. 


ADVICE  TO  A  YOUNG  AUTHOR    121 

Sitting  still, 
Let  it  fill; 
Never  press; 
Nerve  stress 
Always  shows. 
Nature  knows. 

Critics  kind, 
Never  mind! 
Critics  flatter, 
No  matter! 
Critics  curse, 
None  the  worse. 
Critics  blame, 
All  the  same! 
Do  your  best. 
Hang  the  rest! 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

Being  the  doggerel  Itinerary  of  a  Holiday 
in  September,  1908 

To  St.  Albans'  town  we  came; 
Roman  Albanus  —  hence  the  name. 
Whose  shrine  commemorates  the  faith 
Which  led  him  to  a  martyr's  death. 
A  high  cathedral  marks  his  grave, 
With  noble  screen  and  sculptured  nave. 
From  thence  to  Hatfield  lay  our  way, 
Where  the  proud  Cecils  held  their  sway, 
And  ruled  the  country,  more  or  less, 
Since  the  days  of  Good  Queen  Bess. 
Next  through  Hitchin's  Quaker  hold 
To  Bedford,  where  in  days  of  old 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  123 

John  Bunyan,   the  unorthodox, 
Did  a  deal  in  local  stocks. 
Then  from  Bedford's  peaceful  nook 
Our  pilgrim's  progress  still  we  took 
Until  we  slackened  up  our  pace 
In  Saint  Neots'  market-place. 


Next  day,  the  motor  flying  fast, 
Through     Newark,     Tuxford,     Retford 

passed, 

Until  at  Doncaster  we  found 
That  we  had  crossed  broad  Yorkshire's 

bound. 

Northward  and  ever  North  we  pressed, 
The  Bronte  Country  to  our  West. 
Still  on  we  flew  without  a  wait, 
Skirting  the  edge  of  Harrowgate, 


124  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

And  through  a  wild  and  dark  ravine, 
As  bleak  a  pass  as  we  have  seen, 
Until  we  slowly  circled  down 
And  settled  into  Settle  town. 


On  Sunday,  in  the  pouring  rain, 
We  started  on  our  way  again. 
Through  Kirkby  Lonsdale  on  we  drove, 
The  weary  rain-clouds  still  above, 
Until  at  last  at  Windermere 
We  felt  our  final  port  was  near, 
Thence  the  lake  with  wooded  beach 
Stretches  far  as  eye  can  reach. 
There  above  its  shining  breast 
We  enjoyed  our  welcome  rest. 
Tuesday  saw  us  —  still  in  rain  — 
Buzzing  on  our  road  again. 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  125 

Rydal  first,  the  smallest  lake, 
Famous  for  great  Wordsworth's  sake; 
Grasmere  next  appeared  in  sight, 
Grim  Helvellyn  on  the  right, 
Till  we  made  our  downward  way 
To  the  streets  of  Keswick  gray. 
Then  amid  a  weary  waste 
On  to  Penrith  Town  we  raced, 
And  for  many  a  flying  mile, 
Past  the  ramparts  of  Carlisle, 
Till  we  crossed  the  border  line 
Of  the  land  of  Auld  lang  syne. 
Here  we  paused  at  Gretna  Green, 
Where  many  curious  things  were  seen 
At  the  grimy  blacksmith's  shop, 
Where  flying  couples  used  to  stop 
And  forge  within  the  smithy  door 
The  chain  which  lasts  for  evermore. 


126  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

They'd  soon  be  back  again,  I  think, 

If  blacksmith's  skill  could  break  the  link. 

Ecclefechan  held  us  next, 

Where  old  Tom  Carlyle  was  vexed 

By  the  clamour  and  the  strife 

Of  this  strange  and  varied  life. 

We  saw  his  pipe,  we  saw  his  hat, 

We  saw  the  stone  on  which  he  sat. 

The  solid  stone  is  resting  there, 

But  where  the  sitter?   Where,  oh !  where? 


Over  a  dreary  wilderness 
We  had  to  take  our  path  by  guess, 
For  Scotland's  glories  don't  include 
The  use  of  signs  to  mark  the  road. 
For  forty  miles  the  way  ran  steep 
Over  bleak  hills  with  scattered  sheep, 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  127 

Until  at  last,  'neath  gloomy  skies, 

We  saw  the  stately  towers  rise 

Where  noble  Edinburgh  lies  — 

No  city  fairer  or  more  grand 

Has  ever  sprung  from  human  hand. 

But  I  must  add  (the  more's  the  pity) 

That  though  in  fair  Dunedin's  city 

Scotland's  taste  is  quite  delightful, 

The  smaller  Scottish  towns  are  frightful. 

When  in  other  lands  I  roam 

And  sing  "There  is  no  place  like  home." 

In  this  respect  I  must  confess 

That  no  place  has  its  ugliness. 

Here  on  my  mother's  granite  breast 

We  settled  down  and  took  our  rest. 

On  Saturday  we  ventured  forth 
To  push  our  journey  to  the  North. 


128  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

Past  Linlithgow  first  we  sped, 
Where  the  Palace  rears  its  head, 
Then  on  by  Falkirk,  till  we  pass 
The  famous  valley  and  morass 
Known  as  Bannockburn  in  story, 
Brightest  scene  of  Scottish  glory. 
On  pleasure  and  instruction  bent 
We  made  the  Stirling  hill  ascent, 
And  saw  the  wondrous  vale  beneath, 
The    lovely    valley    of    Monteith, 
Stretching  under  sunlit  skies 
To  where  the  Trossach  hills  arise. 
Thence  we  turned  our  willing  car 
Westward  ho!    to  Callander, 
Where  childish  memories  awoke 
In  the  wood  of  ash  and  oak, 
Where  in  days  so  long  gone  by 
I  heard  the  woodland  pigeons  cry, 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  129 

And,  consternation  in  my  face, 
Legged  it  to  some  safer  place. 


Next  morning  first  we  viewed  a  mound, 
Memorial  of  some  saint  renowned, 
And  then  the  mouldered  ditch  and  ramp 
Which  marked  an  ancient  Roman  camp. 
Then  past  Lubnaig  on  we  went, 
Gazed  on  Ben  Ledi's  steep  ascent, 
And  passed  by  lovely  stream  and  valley 
Through  Dochart  Glen  to  reach  Dalmally, 
Where  on  a  rough  and  winding  track 
We  wished  ourselves  in  safety  back; 
Till  on  our  left  we  gladly  saw 
The  spreading  waters  of  Loch  Awe, 
And  still  more  gladly  —  truth  to  tell  — 
A  very  up-to-date  hotel, 


i3o  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

With  Conan's  church  within  its  ground, 
Which  gave  it  quite  a  homely  sound. 
Thither  we  came  upon  the  Sunday, 
Viewed  Kilchurn  Castle  on  the  Monday, 
And  Tuesday  saw  us  sally  forth 
Bound  for  Oban  and  the  North. 
We  came  to  Oban  in  the  rain, 
I  need  not  mention  it  again, 
For  you  may  take  it  as  a  fact 
That  in  that  Western  Highland  tract 
It  sometimes  spouts  and  sometimes  drops, 
But  never,  never,  never  stops. 
From  Oban  on  we  thought  it  well 
To  take  the  steamer  for  a  spell. 
But  ere  the  motor  went  aboard 
The  Pass  of  Melfort  we  explored. 
A  lovelier  vale,  more  full  of  peace, 
Was  never  seen  in  classic  Greece; 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  131 

A  wondrous  gateway,  reft  and  torn, 
To  open  out  the  land  of  Lome. 
Leading  on  for  many  a  mile 
To  the  kingdom  of  Argyle. 

Wednesday  saw  us  on  our  way 
Steaming  out  from  Oban  Bay, 
(Lord,  it  was  a  fearsome  day!) 
To  right  and  left  we  looked  upon 
All  the  lands  of  Stevenson  — 
Moidart,  Morven,  and  Ardgour, 
Ardshiel,   Appin,   and   Mamore  - 
If  their  tale  you  wish  to  learn 
Then  to  "Kidnapped"  you  must  turn. 
Strange  that  one  man's  eager  brain 
Can  make  those  dead  lands  live  again! 
From  the  deck  we  saw  Glencoe, 
Where  upon  that  night  of  woe 
William's  men  did  such  a  deed 


i32  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

As  even  now  we  blush  to  read. 

Ben  Nevis  towered  on  our  right, 

The  clouds  concealed  it  from  our  sight, 

But  it  was  comforting  to  say 

That  over  there  Ben  Nevis  lay'. 

Finally  we  made  the  land 

At  Fort  William's  sloping  strand, 

And  in  our  car  away  we  went 

Along   that  lasting   monument, 

The  good  broad  causeway  which  was  made 

By  King  George's  General  Wade. 

He  built  a  splendid  road,  no  doubt, 

Alas!  he  left  the  sign-posts  out. 

And  so  we  wandered,  sad  to  say, 

Far  from  our  appointed  way, 

Till  twenty  mile  of  rugged  track 

In  a  circle  brought  us  back. 

But  the  incident  we  viewed 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  133 

In  a  philosophic  mood. 
Tired  and  hungry  but  serene 
We  settled  at  the  Bridge  of  Spean. 

Our  journey  now  we  onward  press 
Toward  the  town  of  Inverness, 
Through  a  country  all  alive 
With   memories  of  "forty-five." 
The  noble  clans  once  gathered  here, 
Where  now  are  only  grouse  and  deer. 
Alas,  that  men  and  crops  and  herds 
Should  ever  yield  their  place  to  birds! 
And  that  the  splendid  Highland  race 
Be  swept  aside  to  give  more  space 
For  forests  where  the  deer  may  stray 
For  some  rich  owner  far  away, 
Whose  keeper  guards  the  lonely  glen 
Which  once  sent  out  a  hundred  men! 
When  from  Inverness  we  turned, 


134  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

Feeling  that  a  rest  was  earned, 

We  stopped  at  Nairn,  for  golf  links  famed, 

"Scotland's  Brighton"  it  is  named, 

Though  really,  when  the  phrase  we  heard, 

It  seemed  a  little  bit  absurd, 

For  Brighton's  size  compared  to  Nairn 

Is  just  a  mother  to  her  bairn. 

We  halted  for  a  day  of  rest, 

But  took  one  journey  to  the  West 

To  view  old  Cawdor's  tower  and  moat 

Of  which  unrivalled  Shakespeare  wrote, 

Where  once  Macbeth,  the  schemer  deep, 

Slew  royal  Duncan  in  his  sleep, 

But  actors  since  avenged  his  death 

By  often  murdering  Macbeth. 

Hard  by  we  saw  the  circles  gray 

Where  Druid  priests  were  wont  to  pray. 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  135 

Three  crumbling  monuments  we  found, 
With  Stonehenge  monoliths  around, 
But  who  had  built  and  who  had  planned 
We  tried  in  vain  to  understand, 
As  future  learned  men  may  search 
The  reasons  for  our  village  church. 
This  was  our  limit,  for  next  day 
We  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
Passing    first    Culloden's    plain 
Where  the  tombstones  of  the  slain 
Loom  above  the  purple  heather. 
There  the  clansmen  lie  together  — 
Men  from  many  an  outland  skerry, 
Men  from  Athol  and  Glengarry, 
Camerons   from   wild   Mamore, 
MacDonalds  from  the  Irish  Shore, 
Red  MacGregors  and  McLeods 
With  their  tartans  for  their  shrouds, 


i36  A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD 

Menzies,  Malcolms  from  the  islands, 
Erasers  from  the  upper  Highlands  — 
Callous  is  the  passer  by 
Who  can  turn  without  a  sigh 

From  the  tufts  of  heather  deep 
Where  the  noble  clansmen  sleep. 
Now  we  swiftly  made  our  way 
To  Kingussie  in  Strathspey, 
Skirting  many  a  nameless  loch 
As  we  flew  through  Badenoch, 
Till    at    Killiecrankie's    Pass, 
Heather  changing  into  grass 
We  descended  once  again 
To  the  fertile  lowland  plain, 
And  by  Perth  and  old  Dunblane 
Reached  the  banks  of  Allan  Water, 
Famous  for  the  miller's  daughter, 
Whence  at  last  we  circled  back 


A  LILT  OF  THE  ROAD  137 

Till  we  crossed  our  Stirling  track. 

So   our  little  journey   ended, 

Gladness  and  instruction  blended  — 

Not  a  care  to  spoil  our  pleasure, 

Not  a  thought  to  break  our  leisure, 

Drifting  on  from  Sussex  hedges 

Up  through  Yorkshire's  fells  and  ledges 

Past  the  deserts  and  morasses 

Of  the  dreary  Border  passes, 

Through  the  scenes  of  Scottish  story 

Past  the  fields  of  battles  gory. 

In  the  future  it  will  seem 
To  have  been  a  happy  dream, 
But  unless  my  hopes  are  vain 
We  may  dream  it  soon  again. 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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